


Pigture Perfect

by BranchingSprout



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranchingSprout/pseuds/BranchingSprout
Summary: While scavenging through an abandoned house, Junkrat stumbles upon an old, polaroid camera and some feelings. Eventually, he takes the camera and uses it to document his travels and adventures with Roadhog.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a illustration I did (though not of the picture taken in this chapter specifically): http://lolipoptiger.tumblr.com/post/151206709929/i-want-junkrat-to-find-a-old-camera-and-have-like

        _The first picture was taken on a porch._

They had been on the road all day and finally decided to hunker down, when the land and radiation levels had permitted it. The trip felt more brutal than it was. By the time Roadhog killed his bike’s ignition, it was the deep hours of the evening. The air was already dropping to a comfortable temperature at this point; which meant it would be cold in no time. Thankfully, their stop seemed like a downright vacation destination, as if the universe was apologizing for the inconvenience.

Junkrat was the first to disentangle from the bike to investigate. All it took was a firm stretch, a few cracks, and off he went. If he was honest, he had slept most of the ride, but he hobbled for the house in front of him before moving to rub the crust from his eyes. He didn’t need to make Hog more tired just from looking at him (and if the way he was huffing through his mask was anything to go by, he was exhausted).

And a house he did approach, not an sorry excuse for one or a mirage, either. It had been shredded and faded from bombs and sand, but untouched by physical hands for years. The closest thing to a oasis that existed for miles.

He put his hands on his hips and straightened his back, letting out a low whistle as he looked the place over from top to bottom. Might have been nice a long time ago. It was a shame that Roadhog nudged his way around him and jimmied the door knob none too many times before just breaking the rotting, plank down. It even had a little knocker in the shape of a chicken on the front of the splintered remains. A real shame. It looked gold. Probably wasn’t real gold, not on a ranch shack like this. Might’ve been though.

Junkrat stooped down to try to pry the chicken off sand-blasted remains as Roadhog moved deeper into the house. He could hear the loud, clunking footsteps rattling the dark wood floors of the kitchen to the right. Bugger was really screwed on there good. He moved his gaze up to Roadhog’s hook, which gleamed from between his thick knuckles. It could probably get the chicken off the door. He didn’t think twice about it. He just picked up the board with the bird and tried to dig his gold tooth into one of the screws to loosen it. The first screw was about halfway loose before a large hand swatted at the back of his head.

“Christ, Hog. What is it?” Junkrat scowled up, prying his tooth from the screw.

Roadhog started moving down the hall past Junkrat-- well, not _past,_ so much as forcing Junkrat ahead of him to usher him deeper into the house. “Better loot in here than a door knocker.”

Junkrat huffed and jammed a metal elbow back into the gut behind him so he would stop pushing him. “Alright, alright!”

“Make sure it’s safe,” Roadhog grunted.

“Yeah.”

“The knocker will still be there.”

“I know!” Junkrat slumped to the end of the hall and opened up a door at the very end. Big bedroom. Nice. Holes in the wall. Boring.

He looked back over his shoulder when he heard Roadhog pop open a room a few doors away. He leaned precariously back on his prosthetic to try and look past his massive shoulder, into the room. Looked like a loo. Could be more interesting than a bedroom.

Hog shifted in the doorway, pointed to the doorway Junkrat was standing in, and slunk deeper into the room before shutting the door. Fine.

\--

It took from ten minutes, to five hours to search the bedroom. Give or take. The carpet was a ratty beige dyed orange from sand that had blown in through the gaping holes in the walls, and what was left of them was peeling and dryer than Junkrat’s skin. The rustic, wood wardrobes along the walls were filled with nice clothes, or, would be, if either of the junkers could wear them. They only looked a little munched on by some creature or another. There was even a sweatshirt with either a pile of sticks or a metal band logo on the front. It seemed like something Hog would love, but if it sat like an awkward crop top on Junkrat, there was no way Roadhog could use it for anything more than a drink coozie.

Junkrat slammed the last drawer of the dresser shut, stuffing some loose bills he found in a sock drawer in his shorts. He gave the room another once-over, thinking to himself if he checked all the seams and crevices. He double checked when a feeling of uneasiness climbed his vertebrae one by one.

After that, he was finally done; thus, he marched his way out of the bedroom and to the bathroom. Unceremoniously, he swung the door open and smacked the cheap wood into the arm of his bodyguard.  Roadhog stepped to the side to give him room to fit in, without a word.

“Anything good? Checked the other room. Didn’t find anything worth it. Real tiny people lived here, I tell ya.” Junkrat pressed his fingers together to make a ‘itty-bitty’ hand gesture before crossing his arms.

Roadhog snorted, a muffled and thunderous sound. He closed the medicine cabinet he was going through and handed Junkrat one of two packs of heavily expired Panadol. “Cleaned shop,” He rumbled.

Junkrat perked up, glancing briefly at the pack before stuffing it unceremoniously into his front pocket. “Oh niiice one Hogg-”

“Not me.”

“Come again?”

“Nearly barin in here.” Roadhog nudged a knuckle to the lump in Junkrat’s pocket. “That’s it.”

Junkrat huffed, rolling his eyes as he shuffled back into the hall. “Better loot than a doorknob he says,” he murmured under his breath sarcastically, making a bit of a show.

Roadhog followed him out and reached his fist across the hall to open another door. Junkrat could _feel_ the eye roll behind his rubber mask.

“S’more rooms,” Roadhog commented.

Junkrat, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “S’more knockers too, but that’s not the point,” he said through a grin. Roadhog cracked his neck when Junkrat began vigorously waggling his eyebrows. He ducked into the room to try and ignore the loud chortling behind him.

For about two minutes, the only sound echoing throughout the ranch was the sound of Junkrat’s skin squeaking against the wall as he slid down from the force of his raucous laughter. There was a brief pause when Roadhog walked back out. Junkrat forced himself to contain his laughed ever so slightly, as the other shook his head minutely and stepped over him.

“Search that one.”

Wait wait wait. Junkrat opened his mouth to protest. He wanted to have a look in the other room this time so he could pick if he even wanted it or not. But by the time he peeled himself off the wall he was squished against, Roadhog had already clicked himself behind the door of the remaining room in the hall.

Junkrat let out a noise between a huff and a groan, and sat against the wall. He rubbed his hands over his face, effectively smearing filth back onto any clear trails left from his tears of laughter. Whatever. He dragged himself up and into the room, absentmindedly noting the flooring’s transition under foot. Decayed, beige fibers cut off and transitioned to dusty but reasonable hardwood. The only carpet in the room was a plush, once cream, rug that framed the sturdy, dark legs of an arm chair. Adjacent from it was a crumbling bassinet.

He walked over to the arm chair, flipping up the cushions to search underneath for any seams or hidden valuables. His hands worked like clockwork, like they had in the hundreds of other rooms he had to search in the past. He let his eyes wander in the meantime.

The walls were devoid of any peeling paper, like the rest of the house. It was odd. Where the other rooms were blown open and dilapidated, this one appeared to have survived the brunt of everything. He noted a large mural featuring a fat, long necked bird carrying… What was that? A trash bag?... on one of the walls and pressed the cushion back down with a puff of dust.

Honestly, even before shit hit the fan people didn’t have taste. Not that he was an authority on it.

He continued going through the room as dismissively as possible, with some spite sprinkled on as a garnish. There didn’t seem to be any hidden valuables, which was a huge fucking waste, especially when the room looked better than the rest of the house. He did find some forks, spoons, and talcum powder though, which he stuffed into a free pocket for Roadhog.

The shelves were interesting at least. Not that anything on them was worth anything, they were mostly children's books and some noisemakers (In the back of his mind, Junkrat wondered if kids back in Junkertown would even like stuff like this now.). Some picture frames helped fill the empty spaces on the shelves as makeshift bookends. He finagled one off without knocking over too much (so he didn’t cough up a lung from the dust) and swiped a fleshy thumb against the glass to see the picture past the filth.

A pretty boring looking family definitely lived here, but damn. What an ugly baby. Not that he saw many babies. Come to think of it, he can’t remember the last time he saw one. At all. Didn’t matter though, this was one of the ugly ones. Had to be. The nose reminded him of Hog though, squished and snooted up just like his mask. He put the picture back on the shelf.

He went through the closet next. Turns out it was basically a sanctuary in an oasis. Not that there was anything valuable in it either. No, why would the universe line up like that for him. But it looked like it would keep him busy, and that was what counted. He started from the bottom and pulled out a heavy, cardboard box, plopping down and pulling it between his legs to investigate. The monsoon of stuffed animals that flooded out after him was an added bonus.

As he hunched over the package like a gargoyle, he unfolded the box’s tabs and bent them back. He reached a metallic hand in, and pulled out a bunch of little canisters, each about the size of a large battery. He dumped all but one onto the floor. When he felt along the seam for a edge and pulled, a strand of dark thin paper came out, like ribbon. Oh, that’s fun. He noticed the same ribbon and odd, murky blocks patterned on them when he dismantled the other canisters as well. Honestly they looked more like toys for cats than for babies.

He dumped the tubes of glossy paper to the side, riffling deeper into the box. This time, his flesh hand wrapped around a cube, and upon further inspection, it appeared to be a camera. He had seen suits lurking through Junkertown with them strapped to their necks like nooses at some point. Nothing but pricks documenting them like animals in a cage. He sneered, feeling his skin pull back over his teeth and set the camera to the side.

More rifling. A small pamphlet came out next. Not selling anything, just instructions from what he could tell. He tossed it behind him. Next were a few boxes of square, instant film, that appeared untouched. He looked at the box for a minute, then to the ribboned tubes at his side. Oh. Yeah, those were probably… Well, he couldn’t do anything about it now.

When he reached back into the box, it almost felt like there wasn’t anything else, just a smooth bottom. As he ran his fingers along the edges he realized blankly that wasn’t the case. The entire rest of the box was filled by a dark, thick book that smelled of laminate and mold. He hefted it out by the cover, causing the pages to flutter open in front of him, surprisingly not as many as he expected. He kicked the box back and began flipping through the book balanced on his knees.

He never understood this kind of thing. Photo albums. He thumbed through a few pages, sticking his nose up to the shiney slips covering every picture. They obviously saw these people often, so what was the point of having pictures? The real, physical thing was better than a flat piece of paper. Some of them weren’t even in focus. It might have just been him though, as he had gone cross eyed around page five.

Suddenly, there was a string of loud thuds outside the room and a rattle that shook the room to its core. Junkrat jumped to his feet, kicking the book away as he clenched his hands into white and silver knuckled fists. He was met with a snort and some shuddery breaths in response.

“S’just me, Rat,” Roadhog rumbled through his mask. Junkrat’s shoulders relaxed and he trudged over.

“Jesus christ, mate. You’re going to stop my heart and make my fucking vest go off one of these days, you know that?” he breathed, patting the pig tattoo in the middle of Roadhog’s stomach as he approached.

“Mm.” The way his ears moved minutely on the sides of his mask made it look like he smiled. Either way he headed towards the kitchen without another word.

Junkrat’s eyes darted around, back into the room, then after his bodyguard. He let out a short breath and took a few long strides to catch up. “Find any goodies in there, Roadie? Any knick-knacks? Chachkies?” He prodded. He didn’t even notice the door knocker when he stepped over it this time, staying close to Roadhog’s back. He saw his ponytail bob up and down from more than his stride; a yes.

When he reached the kitchen, Roadhog dumped what he was carrying in his arms onto the vintage, kitchen table. Consequently, it rattled the salt and pepper shakers onto their sides, and scooted a pastel basket to the edge of the table where threatened to topple off. Junkrat, wormed his way around his form to see what he gathered.

It wasn’t the best… Wasn’t the worst… He nicked the decorated lighter off the top as Roadhog turned to go through the kitchen cabinets. There were some hair ties (for Roadhog), one sock (for Junkrat), some nail polish (for both), all laying on a heavy, quilted blanket. Junkrat paused and squinted at the pile, thinking hard for a moment. He was forgetting--

“What was in there,” Roadhog cut off his thoughts simply.

Junkrat clapped his hands together like his was having an epiphany, and then shoved a hand into his pockets. He could see Roadhog’s head turn to the side upon hearing the utensils and powder Junkrat found prior clatter to the table.

“Good,” was Roadhog’s response. Junkrat grinned when he could hear a bit of a smile in his voice, but bit his lip to keep himself from going into more than a fit of giggles. A deep breath rumbled from the other side of the room.

When he saw Roadhog pull various bottles and food out of the cabinets, he grew antsy. What now, what now… He looked on the table and the pastel basket caught his eye. Hog certainly didn’t carry that out. He dug through the shredded newsprint inside, and tossed some of it to the floor; there were a bunch of colored, hollow eggs nestled inside. What was with the people in this house?

He furrowed his brow as he dug deeper but upon finding some lollies, his expression brightened. There was a whole assortment of them. Holy shit! He couldn’t help but let out a shrill squawk that dissolved into chaotic guffaw. Roadhog visibly tensed at the sound. “Junkrat.”

“Got lots of goodies in here, big guy. Oooh, did you check this yet? It’s fucking loaded,” Junkrat shook the basket by its faded handle. Roadhog stood and added some cans to his cluster on the counter. A booming, cough left him as he turned and the kitchen creaked in protest. He was inspecting the basket discreetly behind his mask. Junkrat squatted a bit and held out both arms towards the basket to really sell it.

“Real food first.”

“Fuckin- Real food? Roadie, this is some real food right here.”

Roadhog grabbed a can in his fist, dwarfing it. “Real food first,” Roadhog continued gruffly when he noticed Junkrat open his mouth to keep protesting, “If you want to taste any of that when it goes down, you need to not inhale it.” _Which means have something in your stomach, Rat_.

Junkrat rolled his eyes dramatically, hopping so that he could sit on the table. “Getting a bit bossy for a bodyguard.” Junkrat commented. Roadhog clenched his fist and the can exploded open. Junkrat shrugged. “Bon appetit.”

 

\--

“It’s fucking confusing,” Junkrat grumbled.

Clouds of silver lined dust whipped along the ground. The earth was long cold from the sun setting hours ago, leaving behind nothing but a flat waste dyed blue from the moon. On the porch where the two junkers sat, the only sound was the rumble of heavy breathing and the creak of a porch swing’s chains straining as they swung gently.

Roadhog turned his gaze down to Junkrat, who was lounged across the expanse of the bench; spindly legs thrown over his bodyguard's lap and with his elbows propped on the opposing arm rest. Roadhog’s mask had been set on the remains of the railing in front of him while he sipped at a can of Pumpkin and Sweet Potato soup. “What is?”

“This,” Junkrat gestured loosely towards the house behind them, “That. Whatever. You know what I mean.” Roadhog took a sip of his soup as Junkrat stared at him, waiting for a response. He took a sharp breath through his nose. “Whatever bullshit was going on before everything up and exploded,” Junkrat amended.

Roadhog read the label on his soup. Took another sip.

“Hog.”

A grunt.

Junkrat looked back to the house, then to the man he was sitting on. Roadhog was never the best conversationalist, but still. Rat let out a irritated noise and squirmed to reach under the swing for the basket he had dragged out earlier. He wiggled his prosthetic around in the shredded newspaper until he heard his hand nudge what he was hoping for. Bingo. He pulled back up a bottle of hot sauce and a small bag of pop rocks.

“I mean,” he tore open the bag, “People still live like this. Not here; down the track, sure. Don’t know how they do though.”

Another grunt.

“Found a bunch of pictures in that room I searched. Probably wasn’t fun living like that. Looked fucking boring if you ask me.”

“That’s a word for it.”

“Sure is. What a waste too. Bunch of film, just like those fancy fucking reporters have, ruined to take pictures of people they saw every day.” He didn’t mention how he ruined most of the film himself. Details.

“Hmm.” It wasn’t a grunt, just a pondering sound. Junkrat’s eyebrows shot up minutely as he glanced up to Roadhog, quieting (if only for a second) to listen.

“What?” He pressed when the second was up.

“They have their reasons,” he said plainly, sucking some soup off of his thumb.

Junkrat cackled, “Oh boy.”

“You’re missing some of your ‘loot’, Rat,” Roadhog said pointedly.

“And what’s that supposed to mea-”

“The door knocker. You never grabbed it,” he nodded towards the door. Junkrat furrowed his brow then twisted to look over his shoulder. He was stopped from getting up by a large elbow casually resting on his chest. “You forgot,” Roadhog said.

Junkrat snorted, “You don’t know that. Maybe I was just saving it for last.”

“Some people don’t want to forget. So they take pictures,” he said “ ‘Specially of people.”

Junkrat paused and looked out towards their parked bike. Silence for a brief moment. He squeezed his hand around the small bag of pop rocks in his palm, and knocked the contents back into his mouth. The crackling sound of pop rocks on his tongue broke through the silence as he tried to keep from laughing so he didn’t spit them out.

Roadhog leaned to the side, the wood of the swing whining as he tucked his finished soup can underneath. The pop of his shoulder echoed over that of the pop rocks. Junkrat unscrewed the glass bottle on his lap, pouring some hot sauce in his mouth at the same time. Roadhog felt his nose crinkle minutely in disgust as he scrubbed a rough palm over his own face.

“I’ll take first watch for ya, Hoggo. Not as spry as you used to be, huh? Lookin’ a bit tired there,” Junkrat gave a red toothed smile as his mouth continued to hiss.

“Fuck off.” _Sounds good._

Junkrat capped the bottle in his lap loosely before rolling off of his seat. He stretched his arms up over his head as he moseyed through the house’s destroyed entrance; tired eyes cautiously watched his back until he was out of sight. A deep, rough sigh from the porch made him pause. He let out a sigh of his own.

It might have been stubborn, bullheaded even, to try and figure out a argument to what Roadhog said earlier. But he felt like he _had_ to. There was no reason, to; the conversation ended. But as Junkrat walked down the hall, his foot knocked into something: the door knocker from earlier, and he couldn’t help but sneer.

So what if he forgot things sometimes? He always remembered the important stuff. Like, when it was around Roadhog’s birthday (he wasn’t sure _when_ it was, to be honest...), it was 50% potassium nitrate, 40% sugar, 10% baking soda, and old crayons to make his birthday smoke bombs. Roadie always liked the peach colored ones best.

If he forgot it, there was most likely no point in remembering it anyway. He paced down the hall a bit. He couldn’t think of anything important he might have forgotten. The biggest things he normally forgot were directions, dates, and pricks (take any of those as you will). If any of those things happened to be important, Roadhog would most likely remind him. He paced back.

But what if he didn’t.

What if Roadhog ended up forgetting, too. Other people did that, sure; not just him. Or what if that day finally came where he accidentally blew the lug to chunks. Or, maybe, Roadhog would just stop wanting to remind him anymore.

_Sorry, Rat. You’re all out of walking, taking post-it notes._

Junkrat picked at the polish on his left hand, and spared a glance towards the front entrance. How much had he forgotten from before he met Roadhog? When he forced himself to think, it felt like there were so many empty spaces, places, faces. Was that bad? That happened to everyone, not just him. Sometimes, you can’t remember everything in your head in a moments notice; it wasn’t his fault.

He paced into the kitchen. A deep snore carried through the side of the house. He wasn’t keeping very good watch with his head up his arse like this.

He glanced towards the table, grabbed the heavy blanket that was set there hours ago and hefted it outside. When he was back on the porch, he made delicate work on draping it over the sleeping form resting there, as if he was working on painting one of his frags. He didn’t have to be so cautious, technically. Roadhog had learned not to throttle anything and everything that jostled him awake when he nearly murdered his boss like a rat trap forever ago. But to body-slam a quilt full force into your sleeping cohort seemed a bit inappropriate anyway. The snores lightened.

Junkrat paused, and regarded Roadhog, who looked considerably more cozy now. This was stupid. He forced himself to turn and look to his bike instead. His eyebrows drew together as he forced his eyes to focus. He was starting to understand, surely, but reluctantly. And as he did, a prickly little thought wormed it’s way into his head. He tried to deter it as he kept staring at the motorcycle, but it twisted and dug into the sponge of his brain. Okay.

One last time into the house, then he would sit still. He shuffled with quiet resolve back into the shack and down the corridor, shoving his way into the nursery. He squatted gauchely, and plucked the heavy photo album off the floor first. Quickly, he emptied every page and every sleeve of every picture. Once they had all fluttered to the floor, he began fiddling with the discarded camera to try and shove some film in. However, much to his displeasure, “shoving” the film in didn’t work. In fact, the process of loading it up was absolute bullshit. (He could have looked at the booklet laying on the floor behind him for instructions, but that would have been too easy.)

Once he loaded it, he grabbed the extra packs of film, and tucked the thick album under his arm. He rushed back to the porch, stealthily, and held the camera up like he saw reporters do so many times before. He angled it at Roadhog. As he looked through the viewfinder, he tapped the only button he could find, and soon, film was pouring out the front. The faster he did this, the less he would have to think about it. The less he would have to acknowledge that something may have gotten to him. He ripped the picture off the front and began shaking it wildly, waiting for it to develop.

He resisted the urge to tap his foot but couldn’t help chewing on the inside of his mouth. The fucker was really taking its sweet time.

When the picture finally developed, it was… Not bad for his first try, but it didn’t look like the ones he dumped out from the family before. Roadhog was tilted odd, and didn’t show up _super_ well. If it was because of the shitty lighting from the candle in the window and his hair, or because his hands were shaking, he couldn’t tell. He propped the book up on his metal knee, balancing to put the picture in the album carefully…

He shut the cover gently and sauntered over to the bike to store the camera and album. His hands had only just grazed his sidecar.

“Jamison,” a groggy voice bristled behind him.

He jumped violently. His hands slipped and dropped the album into the car and onto his pile of supplies with a _thud_. His heart pounded as he fidgeted to shove the camera into the car as discretely and quickly as possible. “Just,” he fumbled. Dug. Something, he was looking for- “Just grabbing some more fuses, mate.” He pulled back, with a cluster of said fuses in a white knuckled fist, and held them up for Roadhog to see.

Roadhog didn’t move for a moment. Nodded. “Don’t tinker with the bike.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Go back to sleep it’s not your watch yet, anyway.” He strolled back and sat on the porch stoop casually. A dust-devil blew across the front “lawn.” Roadhog squinted tiredly at him, then glanced around. He was apparently satisfied with whatever he did or didn’t see, because within moments, his shoulders relaxed and he was snoring again.

Junkrat let out a relieved, harsh breath through his nose. He’d think about the album and how to handle it, later. When he remembered it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments, criticisms and general feedback are always appreciated! 
> 
> lolipoptiger.tumblr.com


End file.
